


The Love of a Bard

by SpaceSexual



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-06
Updated: 2020-01-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:14:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22138405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpaceSexual/pseuds/SpaceSexual
Summary: "The pen is mightier than the sword - and so it would seem, is the lute."Jaskier's a bard, a truly exceptional model of his vocation. He writes songs that bring crowds to their feet and thinks his time spent with the Witcher has let him learn a step or two of his own.However, some dances require one step forward, and a few very rapid, fear-filled, paces back.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 21
Kudos: 733





	The Love of a Bard

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't slept in a week. I haven't finished the show, nor read the book, and I have only given the game a passing glance. 
> 
> Toss a Coin haunts me. 
> 
> ...in a good way.

A bard’s song is intended to bring people to their feet. A jaunty tune to tap to, a bawdy tale to silence, a heroic lament to sigh with in the company of a tavern. Songs are meant to be danced to, and sung along with.

Jaskier’s songs had always been more inclined to the first two, something to get people moving and moved - keep them occupied from the monsters just beyond the tavern’s walls, the castle’s gates, the clearings edge. The bard has more experience getting people to dance than doing it himself.

That is, of course, until the Witcher. _Geralt of Rivia._

Now Jaskier could do all sorts of dancing - dancing around conversation subjects, dancing around the perilous swipe of claws, of blades, or the barbed insult from his traveling companion. He was practically always on his toes now, a ballet in mind and body as he traveled the continent with the White Wolf.

Not, of course, that he minded the new nimbleness - his songs were getting better because of it. An entirely new rhythm would beat a tattoo with his heart when the hiss of steel would halt their travels progress. His fingers almost unconsciously would map their way down the chords of his imagined lute as he would dive for cover, dance and dodge himself out of direct danger, but always close enough by to document, dissect.

_These_ were the songs to get people moving. Villians, violence and victories.

That’s how it was when this battle had begun, two road weary travelers and a band of vile brigands. He could almost hear the swell before the chorus, watching as Geralt’s sword caught the light before it sailed down. The heavy beats and crashes of steel were hammering out a tempo that has Jaskier tapping in time to - mind racing to mark to remember later. He keeps knelt at the roads edge, tightening the strap of his lute’s case to his chest as he watches the Witcher carve through those that dared test his blade.

\--

_A cad’s quick But the Witcher is faster-_

_One harsh flick, And a beast meets it’s master-_

\--

Jaskier shook his head, frowning to himself as he pushed the phrasing to the side, eyes finding the wild furious look of a bandit now facing him. He might have gotten _a little_ too caught in the music - and now he was facing it. He blinked as he moved up from his crouch, the manic look of anger on the bandit’s face lighting up as he clearly identified Jaskier to be a defenseless target. A perfectly murderable target.

The bandit charged.

_Perhaps_ he’s been a little too poetic on his dancing prowess, panic making Jaskier’s feet tangle as he stumbles back, the bandit sure-footed pounding across the road - that honestly, in hindsight, Jaskier really could have gotten further away from.

The glint of the blade shines in the sun, just as Geralt’s had, something about the sight now much less dazzling. Jaskier facies as time seems to slow that he can see the careless scratches, nicks, rust in the blades edge… how unfortunate to be brought down by some completely mundane weapon. No blazing venom in his veins from a vicious beast, no tragic poison to have passed his lips.

He curls in defense from the blow, some glimmer of an idea seizing him as he angles his shoulder up, his lute’s case raising as the sword sings down its final refrain.

He grunts with the hit, the blade's edge embedding in the hard case on his back, Jaskier’s head snapping up with surprise at the fleeting pain of the strike as the bandit still seems to be recovering from the impact of the lute. Jaskier meets the bandits eyes, something feral in his chest swells as he _twists_ , throwing his shoulder hard as the blade is pulled from the bandits grasp, Jaskier twisting his face in a triumphant shout cut short only by the very sudden loss of the bandits head.

Hot, wet sprays of red pour over him as a very _dead,_ limp body begins to fall over on him, his triumph quickly being doused by both blood and disgust. An angered grunt from behind the bandit is followed by the headless corpse’s sudden and violent exit of his line of sight, revealing a winded and wild-eyed Witcher.

Geralt’s nostrils flared as he looked at Jaskier before his face morphed into one of fear. The sword clattered to the ground.

“Ah-,”Jaskier begins before the Witcher is on him, the wall of muscle descending on him as hands are on him, fingers fervent and wild as they slide all over Jaskier, his clothes, the blood he’s soaked in. He blinks as hands are pulling his head around, tugging at his arms. Geralt is… fussing over him?

“Jaskier. It’s going to be okay. You’re going to be fine.” Geralt's voice is firm and oddly reassuring. Jaskier’s being crowded to the ground as Geralt is twisting him this way and that, the Witcher breathing hard.

“Oh-, I - yes? I suppose so-?” Jaskier says towards Geralt’s armored shoulder, the Witcher pausing in his frantic search, his hands gripping the bard by the sleeves of his jacket. Yellow eyes narrow as Geralt looks him over, slowly, eyes tracking through the gore that has slicked Jaskier’s hair to his head. Gore, clearly, not coming from the bard himself.

“You… aren’t injured-?” Geralt said, looking to the bandit blade now lying a few feet to their side, discarded in the road muck.

Jaskier blinked before he hummed, “Mm- no-, _Oh!_ ” He lurched forward, Geralt’s hands very suddenly returning their wound searching as Jaskier shook off the hands as he unslung his lute, the case cut with a heavy single cleave breaking into its lid.

“Oh -no.” Jaskier hushed, his hands gentling the case to the ground with more care than a mother to her child. “No,no _no-_ ” He hummed worriedly, shaking hands opening the case clasps. He heard the Witcher grunt at the display, a mix of annoyance or perhaps relief.

To Jaskier it sounded like the bemoaning of a horrible tragedy, his whole world’s symphony crashing down in a cacophony.

His lute has a _nick_.

His beautiful instrument of kings and courts.

Glistening in its resin treated oak, the soft pearl appliques picking out the frets down the neck _shining_ until - towards the sharp ‘g’ - a break in the glimmering coat, where the blade had cleft into the top of the instrument, two of the strings snapped.

“Oh.” He tsked. “I _really_ didn’t think that through did I, my darling?” Jaskier cooed, voice hushed as he bent over the instrument, his red fingers running over the neck.

“Jaskier-”

“Oh, what a _fool_ I am - to be so reckless -, my gods - absolutely in _terror_ you must have been, darling-” Jaskier said, his head bowed as he felt the brittle splinters at the edge of the lute, small pieces having been cleaved from the case itself. “Silly me, my shining angel, _what_ can I say to make this better, even for now, for _just a moment_ -,”

“Jaskier…-” Geralt’s voice was firm and thick, the Witcher knelt just beside him, the hold on his jacket becoming a soft hand on his back.

“Apologies can’t even begin to form! My dear, my _reckless_ , _feckless_ nature - with no rhyme or reason, cautions to the wind- I am so _stupid_ , my love.” He cradled his fingers under the instrument as he bowed over the case, the hand on his back tensing.

“Love-,”

Jaskier cradled the lute to his chest like a babe, arms swaddling the instrument as he cooed softly at it, eyes locked on the pitiful state it was in, its strings falling over his arm like a death shroud.

“My love, _look_ what I’ve let happen to you.” He said to the instrument, leaning back as Geralt’s hand slid from his back, the Witcher’s face flat as he sat knelt by Jaskier’s knee.

“The… instrument.” Geralt’s voice flattened. Flatter than usual, and if Jaskier had a say - a true vocal feat.

Jaskier hissed, his eyes clenching shut as he tilted his head back, feeling the words of every tragedy bubbling on his lips as he groaned. “ _Geralt!_ It’s a tragedy what has happened!” His fingers cradled over the instrument. “I wasn’t - I didn’t even _think!_ I just used my heart as a bloody shield and _look what’s happened to it!_ ” He hissed, eyes flying open as he turned the gaping wound on the neck of the lute to the Witcher. “No potion or salve can fix this on the road!”

Geralt’s brow merely popped, not quite a raise, and not quite so flat on his face as he gave the instrument a blank look, yellow eyes losing their glimmer of battle and adrenaline.

“No. It can’t.”

**\--------**

The White Wolf might as well have killed him, Jaskier moaning in grief as he looked in Geralt’s eyes before turning back to the lute. Geralt’s expression only flattened further as he looked at the perfectly hale bard sitting on the ground, soaked in the blood of a bandit and bemoaning a - _slightly_ damaged lute.

The Witcher’s eyes looked to the lute’s case, running over the lid, the splinters, Jaskier’s words bubbling up. “You used it… as a shield.”

“It was a _mindless_ , _wild_ thing to do. I just - used her like _you_ would. A gift from the king of the elves and I - ” Jaskier sighed, strumming discordantly on the lute’s remaining strings, a soft huff on his lips. “...Although she did do well to knock the sword away.” He smiled down at the pearl and resin. “The pen is mightier than the sword - and so it would seem, is the lute.”

Geralt hummed, breathing out his nose as he closed his eyes for a moment, taking a breath after the battle, the wanton fear of a cleaved bard.

The Witcher gathered his sword and stood, cleaning the blood from the blade with a rag on his belt as he surveyed the road they had been traveling on, been attacked on.

They had daylight yet.

Time still to make to the nearest town - to wash the blood and battle from themselves and find a comfortable bed not amongst the snakes and the trees… time to find a merchant somewhere to fix the damned lute.

Geralt kicked a foot at Jaskier’s leg, watching the man grumble out of his musings, blue eyes still tracing up and down the instrument in his arms. “Come on. We’re moving on.”

Jaksier sighed, loud and heavy, sounded more put out than anything by the damage to his lute than any other lasting damages as he gentled it back in its cracked case, and slung it over his shoulder with a measured pace. The bard’s face was gloomy, lips pouted, brows drawn slightly. The Witcher would really be concerned if he didn’t already see the way the man’s fingers ‘played’ along the instrument’s case strap, fingers tapping out a pattern to a silent song as Jaskier simply gave the area a slow sweeping gaze, the bandits having either been felled or fled.

Geralt whistled for Roach, the horse ambling along soon enough to reach them. He mounted and gave one last look to Jaskier, the two of them turning their steps towards town.

“A fine story this would make - a _stupid_ bard who got his instrument wrecked.” Jaskier said bitterly as they walked. Geralt glanced down to the bard’s quick - tapping fingers. “A stupid bard who loved his lute _so much_ he destroyed it. A true - tragic balled.”

Geralt hummed as they walked, listening to Jaskiers inane chittering about his lute, his stupidity, how much he loved the instrument and would ‘ _never be so reckless again, my love, I swear!_ ’

“Perhaps-,” Geralt said, surprising Jaskier to silence, and to the bard’s credit - even himself. “-Perhaps it’s less the story of the stupid bard who loved to destruction, but the instrument who loved to save him.”

Silence fell on the road, the only sounds in the setting sun being the footsteps and hooves of the travelers.

Until the footsteps stopped, Jaskier halting in the middle of the road. “Why… _Geralt of Rivia…_ we may just make a poet of you, yet!” The shrill peal of the bard’s voice immediately made Geralt regret he said anything - his heels tapping to Roach’s side as he spurred the horse to walk faster.

Jaskier’s voice was high and delighted as he called after him, the bard racing down the road behind him as they headed into town, soaked in blood.


End file.
